Her

Today, I was in the library reading something from Lovecraft and listening “Hasta siempre Comandante” (a very curious mix, if we want to label it inside of the stereotypical behaviour). Then someone tried to push the door.

Normally, no one tries to get in, because it’s visible that the door is locked: always locked. But seldom someone would push softly the door, and I would point out from the other side of the glass that the door is locked, thus I’m opening it for them. This time, was not as always. Someone tried to push the door very hard. In fact, I don’t remember anyone pushing it so hard until now. I raised my head from the computer screen, and I saw a woman in haste.

Slowly, I stood up and went to open the door. In the short walk, I felt sympathy for her; and I thought that a locked door is good to avoid haste. Her attitude was violent: she almost broke the weak secure. But the locker made her stop. I could even see that gradually she realized she should not hurry – then stopped gently and waited for me to open, erasing all traces of violence and haste in a second. The change in her expression was as sudden as to change a bitter cry to a fresh smile in a second; but I felt it natural in her.

She was an attractive woman. And she had a beautiful voice. She was wearing an ao po’i shirt, black trousers, short hills black sandals, and a discreet bag. She had some accessories, but nothing important. Her make up was simple and nice: a bit of eyeliner, a bit of colour on the checks and lips. Her skin was white, beautifully white. Not as a darkie queen, so extremely white that looks unnatural. She had a pure white skin. And her hair and eyes were black. I smelled her perfume when I opened the door, and I innocently liked her.

She told me her name and asked me if I could communicate with Reina, the other secretary, because she was meant to pick up some document. I said of course; and as I said this, I locked the door again and walked toward the telephone. Something in my rational side of the mind told me that it was a bit absurd to lock the door: closing it was enough. But my instinct told me to lock it, and I did so.

When I turned to the desk and took the telephone, things happened slower than time itself. She turned back to the door: took the first locker and opened it. I stared at her as she did it. Then she got the second one, and pushed it. Door was unlocked, as I was saying “hello Reina, this woman – lady…” very confused. “Who?” asked Reina; at that moment, lady left. “This lady…” I told Reina, without knowing what to say. “It’s her surname Pérez?*” asked her. “I don’t know, I will ask” I said, and I followed the lady to the outside.

“Sorry” said I with coloured checks. “Yes” said she with this mix of hyperactivity and tranquillity. “Is your surname Pérez?” asked I. “Oh yes” said she, coming in again and smiling sweetly. I came in again and took the phone. “Sorry” added she, and my face became reddish. “Yes, Reina, she is Pérez”. “Oh, then, tell her to come to me. I wait for her”. “Ok” said I and hung off.

“You may go upstairs, Reina is waiting for you” I told her. “May I come in trough that other door?” she asked, smiling (freshly but pretended, naturally but afraid) “Sure” I said, not looking at her. I just didn’t look at her, I don’t know why. She pushed the door, she came out and disappeared.

All this things happened in less than three minutes. As she left I kept on reading. When I finished the tale, I started another one. Then, my thoughts came back to her. I visualized her. Black hyper short hair she had, with black squared shape glasses; eyeliner and a bit of colour in the face; white skin and black eyes. Ao po’i white shirt as well; black trousers, short hills sandals. “Oh” said I, as I looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing a white shirt, black pants, short hills sandals; my skin was whitey, my hair black, my eyes dark. My glasses black squared shape, my eyes lined in black and my lips in soft brilliant.

Of course I didn’t have a discreet bag. And I didn’t seem as attractive – not even attractive: I was sleepy and I had bags in my eyes. My face was spotted with acen and I was not skinny. But I had to recognize that for a second, it seemed that in the library there were two portraits of a same lady in different lifetimes: before twenties and before thirties. One had an ugly perception of herself; the other, a beautiful possible one.

This idea crossed my mind as I lightning, and I didn’t care about it much. I read back. But some taste of incompleteness stayed on my mind. A second the idea lasted: the next second it was gone.

Then, I heard her leaving by the main gate. Her hills hit the stairs on my back. Her small hand opened the door next to me, but we were separated by a wall, so I didn’t see her. She walked out and passed in front of my library. The idea of similarity was not even in my mind anymore in that moment. But I stared at her. She smiled to me and waved her hand with energy. I didn’t realize that I was supposed to answer to the waving, but I did it automatically.

And THEN I saw how similar we were. I saw the same violence that changes in affability in a second; the same eyes of hyperactivity; the kind smile, which showed how far away her thoughts were. The way she hit the stairs (noisy, noisy, noisy! she is not used to hills); the way she waved her hand – so spontaneous, so random. The evidence of her as living in her own world – she opened the door without asking me. The disperse attention, when she told me her name but not her surname – which one should say by default when introducing oneself. She had this aspect of “strange” person that didn’t have a drop of outrageousness, but was “weird” for sure.

Well, I didn’t smell and smiled as beautifully as she did; and I doubt my skin is as white as hers. And I doubt I seem as “sophisticate” or “fashionable” as she did. But I saw in her a beauty that I may dare to find in myself, one day – perhaps. The beauty was beyond her appearance; closer to seeing ourselves in each other. Because her smile meant it: she realized about our similarity in the moment she pushed the door.

After this realization, I said that I should know at least remember her name. And I tried to recall it. But I didn’t remember it! “Pérez, Pérez, Pérez… what was her freaking name?”

In a fraction of second, the truth touched me and made me hilariously laugh.
Her name was Verónica.